All That Is Familiar
by K9Lasko
Summary: It's a classic case of unstoppable force meets immovable object. Skull versus wood. DiNozzo versus Gibbs.


**WARNING: **Dark! Might be disturbing to some.  
**Rating: **FR18  
**Author's Note: **I'm well aware that there will be those who'll see Gibbs as wildly out of character in this piece, but there's something about this portrayal that grabbed me and threw me for a loop. I took some time thinking about the power dynamics that would come into play in a relationship between Tony and Gibbs. While it could be good, it could also be very, very bad. Pardon this brief trip into a dark and intensely angst-ridden corner. This is more experimental than anything else. It doesn't last for long.  
**Length: **One-shot  
**Characters: **DiNozzo/Gibbs  
**NFA Challenge: **Well, it was meant for one or two, but I don't think it's appropriate.

* * *

**ALL THAT IS FAMILIAR**

"You're too headstrong," Gibbs says before a glass jar shatters against a concrete wall. Maybe he doesn't merely say it; maybe he yells it. His hand is still outstretched; he'd been holding that jar a mere second ago.

Tony flinches - it's inadvertent but inevitable - but he stands still, for the most part, lodged in place by some fierce force of self-preservation. Gibbs is mad; he can see that. And judging by the streaks of wasted alcohol scouring down the wall and racing towards the floor, he's also too drunk to fully appreciate Tony's sudden pause, and the brief, open look of disbelief.

"You never listen," he goes on. It's a rant. A common one. "You need to _listen_!"

There is a difference between listening and taking heed, and Tony figures this is where the trouble originates. He's stubborn and - yes - maybe a bit too headstrong, but he's been this way for years. He won't be changing. Gibbs' anger is useless, unwarranted, and this sudden flash of bad temper is disturbing.

Instead of being cowed, Tony bristles and says, "Throw a glass at me again, and I'll be gone." It's not an empty threat. Gibbs has struck him only once before in anger. An open palm to the face. It stung for no more than a minute, but Tony bore the mark for days while Gibbs slept alone for weeks.

He can hold a grudge. He may not look it, but Tony is a tough bastard. He's got tenacity for two. He handles Gibbs' tempestuous mood swings with a firm hand. He won't be intimidated. Not easily. He takes a step towards Gibbs. It's not a friendly step; it's stiff-legged and aggressive.

Gibbs only now appears contrite. His brain has finally caught up with his anger and the action that followed it. It's all cause and effect. The shards have spread wide across the floor. The jar had missed Tony's arm by inches. Intentional. A warning.

The basement smells like cold cement and wood chips, damp with mold and old memories. And now all of that mixes with the heady scent of 80 proof bourbon. Gibbs has put his face in his hands, elbows planted on his worktable.

"Tony-" he begins to mumble into his palms.

But Tony is quick to interrupt. He knows what Gibbs' apologetic words will sound like. He doesn't need apologies right now. Maybe they'd be genuine, or maybe they'd be empty. "If I had listened to you, if I had done what you asked me to do, we wouldn't be having this conversation." The words are quiet and measured.

"That killer would not be free," Gibbs counters, one hand forming into a fist and striking down at the table. Seemingly in an instant, the regret is gone, replaced only by fresh anger and a kind of frustration that only Tony could inspire from him

Tony cannot help his flinch. "There was no guarantee we'd get him."

"You should have done what I said."

"I made a decision-"

"This is why we-" Gibbs begins to say.

But Tony raises his voice to overpower him. "I made a tactical decision out there, and I'll stand behind it. Write me up, do what you need to do, but I'd make that same decision over and over again."

Gibbs is agitated. He's gripping the table with two hands now, eyes latched onto Tony, and now he's judging the distance between the both of them. One lunge away. "This is why we can't keep doing this," he manages to finish. "And you bet your ass I'll write you up. It's going in your file, too, and I'll support a suspension. Unpaid."

"Whatever makes you feel better about yourself," Tony grinds out.

"Ask yourself if it's worth it, DiNozzo," Gibbs then says. He knows what will get Tony's dander up, and he wants to exploit it. "Is this worth it, you and me."

"You're an asshole."

"We both knew this would happen-"

Years ago, Tony would have taken his lumps. He would have limped away to lick his emotional wounds in private, because years ago, Gibbs was always right. But now, Gibbs is so far from right that it makes Tony's head spin. Now, Tony has his own ideas of right and wrong, acceptable and unacceptable, needed and unneeded. He's no longer fit to follow. Now, playing second fiddle is his choice and his choice alone.

Tony feels himself lunging without giving it any real forethought. It's payback for the thrown jar full of bourbon. He's pissed and offended. He wants to rip Gibbs' face off, or at least make him bleed.

But even while intoxicated, Gibbs has split second reflexes. He catches Tony by the arms. The chair overturns, and the both of them stumble into a shelf. A container of nuts and bolts gets tossed to the floor; they're sent everywhere. Tony beats Gibbs in both strength and weight, but Gibbs knows how to manipulate that strength and weight. So while Tony manages to get in a few jabs and rough shoves, it's Gibbs who ultimately decides when the fight should end.

They're suddenly on the floor, and Tony only knows it because the floor is hard and unyielding and there's a whole array of nuts and bolts grinding into his shoulder. He squirms and flails like a feral cat while Gibbs attempts to hold him down. Both of them are panting heavily from their combined struggling; spit flies as they grapple with each other uselessly. Some yet unrealized force begins to constrict Tony's throat. He gags and chokes before throwing himself upwards and to the side, hoping to wrench his neck away from the pressure.

It's a moderately successful move, or at least it is until the edge of a workbench comes out of nowhere and strikes him bluntly in the side of the head. Turns out the workbench hadn't been moving at all, but Tony clearly had been. Except now he isn't. It's a classic case of unstoppable force meets immovable object. Skull versus wood.

Gibbs is slow to react. He's still locked in the heat of the moment, struggling to get the man into an effective hold. But eventually Gibbs realizes that Tony is no longer fighting; he's slumping onto him, legs folded awkwardly under his body.

He's not knocked out, merely dazed and woozy. Gibbs releases him immediately, hands held open as if Tony's body had just burned them. Tony gets up unsteadily on all fours and attempts to crawl away. He tips into the leg of the worktable and then vomits halfway under it. He falls into a sit, eyes staring at something in the far corner, as if he's confused about what's happening. Then he's gagging again.

"Jesus H. Christ," Gibbs is swearing.

But Tony is too busy feeling nauseous and dizzy and stunned to listen to what else he's saying. He feels calloused hands touching his head. Minutes ago they had been violent, but now they are gentle.

"Get your damn hands off me," Tony protests, struggling in drunken fits and starts. But he's exhausted and the room is tilting around him. He wants to get away. He wants to get far, far away, but he can't. He closes his eyes and permits Gibbs' soft touch, grudgingly. He doesn't know how to react to these hands, these familiar hands that throw and hit and choke, yet also guide and caress. Tony swallows thickly as his eyes begin to burn; the taste of bile is stubborn, but eventually it will fade much like the bruises and the indignity.

But - again - Tony is a tough bastard; there isn't much he can't endure. It sits side-by-side with what he won't endure. The line is thin - razor thin - but he knows when it's been reached.

The daze lessens its hold. The tilt-a-whirl slows. The nausea keeps. He's still leaning heavily against the leg of the table. He discovered that he's afraid to move, and it's not just because his head is throbbing. Then he realizes he's crying, moaning, low and soft. He doesn't know why, but he is. He's humiliated, torn down and tossed around. He hasn't cried in years, hasn't conveyed pain so honestly. The blow to the head has finally jarred something loose.

And he can't get rid of the lingering feel of Gibbs' hands, gripping and squeezing and choking away all that is familiar.


End file.
